


hell's crucible

by zalzaires



Series: an angel of death is best accented in red [3]
Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Either Or, Extended Scene, Gen, Novelization, what do you call it when you take a couple of throwaways lines and make it a whole thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28787271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zalzaires/pseuds/zalzaires
Summary: that one part of the game where kuja absorbs a soul from the invincible.
Series: an angel of death is best accented in red [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110569
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. likelihood of rot

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again at the krispy kreme. i know the exact arc of this story and where it ends and i WILL finish it this month dammit

The interior of the Invincible greeted him like a ghost of a past self he’d long since shed.

He followed his own decade-old footprints in the dust, eyes as wild as the harsh beat of his heart. He would stay calm, he informed himself, even as the agitation made his fingers twitch.

A tense bark of laughter haunted his lips, bursting out at every obstacle that presented itself to be brutally surmounted. This was it. This was his _moment._

...Insidious and insistent, the running status of the ship eased into his chaotic thoughts like another eye or ear. It was a flood of information a _lesser_ soul would be easily overwhelmed by. In the past he had disliked it. But now--

_Ship’s crucible capacity at 68%. Density at risk level orange. Mist beings may arise from crucible without adjustment. Likelihood of rot and loss of soul usability risen to--_

The entrance to the crucible opened up before him. He stumbled inside, a hand uselessly shielding his ear, as if it could block out a voice that spoke without sound. No matter... No matter! Time was finite. Any moment, Garland’s gaze could flit away from his little brother’s pitiful antics, and rest instead upon himself. And then the game would be up.. no, Kuja wouldn’t allow it.

In the past, he had disliked the prying voice of the Invincible; but now it lead him so graciously to right where he wanted most to be.

The crucible pulsed a painful red. The closer he drew to it, the more he could hear things, feel things – flashes of high heat and blistering cold, spikes of nerve pain dancing through his body as paper curling in a fire, voices pleading or screaming or whispering – all aflame, in a chorus of agony, ‘twas the roiling heart of hell at his fingertips. This was the seal of Garland’s power, the most powerful inheritance of Terra’s children.. indeed, it belonged to him. Inside these ruby red depths, there imprisoned were an innumerable amount of Gaian souls… and a lucky one was about to serve as the means of his ascension.

“To have lasted this long… I commend you all,” he chattered, reaching a hand right into the heart of red. “You have performed beautifully, awaiting my arrival. Now your long wait is over…!”

...As soon as his fingertips brushed against the crucible, the world went bright – then dark. He was dimly aware of his knees hitting the floor.


	2. silver wrought over with red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The color he was born with. The angel of death, doomed to be awash in blood; yet he had reinvented that vision. His hands would ever be clean – still, he would mete out death, as steely as a blade, as immaculate as the newly-forged. Never to be tarnished.

*

The next thing Kuja was aware of was color in the Gaian sky.

The vista was troubled. Dark clouds back-lit by vivid red… perhaps, somewhere past the thunderheads, there lay a beautiful sunset. But here beneath was only gloom. A brush of wind ran over him and woke the rest of his senses-- Kuja sat up, finding himself amid a wash, little shards of rock and dirt clinging to his clothes.

It was cold as a grave, and he grimaced, rubbing at his forearms. His mind was moving in slow motion… when did he get here…? What was he doing, last…? Like walking into a room with an intent, and having it vanish just as soon as you got there. He knew he was here for a reason – a Reason, in fact, earth-shattering and life-ending. But he couldn’t name it. Guided by foggy instinct, he walked the wash, heedless to the mounds of dust rising from his steps, pulling at his legs like he was moving through molasses.

One environment bled away, syrupy, into another: he turned a rocky corner, and an entire settlement lay splayed out before him.

The name of this place occurred to him five steps closer: mɒbɒin ƨɒɿi. It fit snugly into place, and his nerves eased. There, of course, visible over the ridge, was the great pillar of a sword. In the distance, the Iifa tree blotted the horizon, an impression of deeper darkness among the bleak sky.

Truly, this was mɒbɒin ƨɒɿi, exactly as he remembered it.

A horned man watched him, unblinking, as he ambled into the center of the town. Kuja studiously ignored him. A fountain with a pleated base awaited him, and he eagerly plunged his hand amid the glimmering depths--

–he stopped, gaze fixed on the quavering surface of the water. His reflection below was red, red, red.

_(was he BLEEDING? Nonsense.)_

He stood still, watching, waiting, until the water worked its way back to a relatively placid state. There he was, silver wrought over with red. He grabbed at a fistful of his hair, resting on his shoulder, and held it in front of his face to stare it down. Silver. But in the water… still red. Disgust welled up swiftly within him. Why was he here? To be faced with something unsightly that he had long ago folded out of sight? How useless.

Too late, he noticed the horned man’s reflection stood beside him. Kuja splashed at the water in a hurry, shattering the telltale mirror once more. But it was too late. The other man looked up slowly from where he’d clearly been staring into the water, a steely grimace on his face.

“That your purpose, coming here? To simply smash to bits what you dislike? Won’t get you far.”

“It’s just water,” he snipped, flicking the last of it from his hand, before crossing his arms. “...What do you want? I’m quite busy, I’ll have you know.”

“Are you now.” The horned man laughed, a deeply rankling sound that started deep in his throat, tinged with a rasp. “I’ll bet you, that you aren’t going anywhere, any time soon. Not with that attitude.”

“I tire of this.” Kuja turned, and walked off. As he turned his back upon them both, the horned man faded from sight, followed in a minute by the pleated fountain. The sound of running water was slowest to die away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some notes for this chapter: the ultimania designates that kuja's original hair color, before he changed his appearance with magic, was red, and that it was turning back into the original color in his trance form.


	3. a sense of premonition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lightbulb moment

He trudged through deserted streets, taking in little of what lay around him. The vision of himself in the water clawed foremost at his thoughts... He hadn’t much notice for it at first, but it wasn’t merely his hair that had changed. His clothes had become twisted and tattered, and were bursting with white feathers. It reminded him of something… no, not just something: it reminded him of the reason he was here.

In this town rest a secret he coveted, that much he knew. But all great powers of Gaia he had already plundered, for each and every drop of advantage he could wring out. He had raised and razed armies, known the service of Eidolons, seen even the greatest of them in its moment of dying splendor, to his personal _agony_ he might add, thanks to wretched Garland and the gaze of that great and terrible eye--

(a phantom sense of cold metal leeched at his back)

“Ugh.” He ran his hands through his hair, slow, eyes screwed shut. He could barely think in this place. It was terribly noisy… not with sound, but with friction; a sense of premonition hung heavy around him. Things pressing in, wanting his attention… but not even to communicate. Nothing was being hinted, asked, stressed.. it was all just to show that it was there. Aware.

He stayed like that a few moments, taking deep breaths. He had no time to tarry, and when the moment of weakness had passed, he pet down his mussed hair, fixed his gaze straight ahead, and kept moving.

So if it wasn’t an object for him to seize, there were very few options left of what he could have cared to come here for… at once it came to him, as easily as opening his eyes.

The vision in the fountain was a portent of the future… of his own body, amid the throes of Trance. He stopped in his tracks.

“...that’s right. I'm here to take a soul back with me.” Of which there were few that dared show themselves.

The specifics of his current situation fell into place slowly, still fuzzy around the edges. He wasn’t in a town, precisely… but inside a memory. Memories, in fact – the memories of each and every soul packed within the leering eye of the Invincible. They had formed a patchwork he had fallen into... a clever one, he would admit. For a while it had cast its lullaby upon him quite convincingly.

“I’ve wasted so much time already. Dear brother… you better be putting up a good fight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk i think it's fun to play with the concept that gave rise to memoria but on like a slightly smaller scale.


	4. a weak little soul

Finally, one of the dead scuttling at the edges of his senses dared to approach.

“I know you’re there,” he barked over his shoulder. In front of a blackened window, a woman appeared, her face broken – blood rimed it like rust on an abandoned blade. The culprit was clear – she held the stained chunk of rubble in her hands, as if she was carrying a precious treasure.

She said nothing. Merely stared. The clothes looked Alexandrian in style, most akin to the wear of the city’s peasantry.. these too were tacky with blood.

“You must have died when I lay siege for Alexander. Tell me. How have you found the Invincible’s accommodations, since your death? Terrible, isn’t it? What if I told you, I could free you of such a dreadful--”

She threw the rock at him.

It bounced, of course, off of a Protect spell. They came easily at hand to him – with just a twitch of his little finger, swords and slings were of no matter. He put one foot astride it, and smiled, before kicking it away. With a spark of his magic, it soon fell apart like a lump of dry mud.

“Did that make you feel better, dear?”

She came for him herself next. Quicker than she looked, the woman lunged toward him, hands aiming for his throat –

When their bodies came to contact, she gave: her form split harmlessly to mist, like waves breaking on a shore. The last little wisps of her he batted away playfully.

“...Ah, but that was a waste,” he chastised himself. “I suppose I could have tried harder to convince her. Next time, surely.”

...The next one would prove to be just as reluctant. And the next, and the next. Turn by turn, the dregs of souls still coherent amid the crucible would come to him, pain emblazoned in hollow eyes. And they would fruitlessly vent their fury.

It wouldn’t be possible to do what he needed without an _agreement_ to cooperate. But they were all proving intractably stubborn.

“Do none of you tire of your prison?” he asked of the leering air. “Hear me! I am the only key left to your freedom..! Here, you’ll rot away to nothing – you won’t even be reborn as creatures of mist!”

Nothing.

He cursed the emptiness. There was no option but to return with a soul in hand. He hadn't factored in that they would all be so damnably resistant.

...A shade of one of this own creations was watching him, this time. It hid its head by instinct, when he caught it staring. Slowly it gathered its courage, and peered back up from under the wide brim of its steepled hat.

No. Not even in his _most desperate_ of moments. He refused.

“Color me impressed,” he told it in a droll tone. “That you ever had enough of a soul to survive so long. Begone. I’ve no use of _you_.”

It didn’t listen. Instead, it took a moment to fix the tilt of its hat, and clumsily crept toward him. He scowled. “Go away!”

It wouldn’t. A lash of fire sent its way proved worthless to dissuade it. The phantom reformed, fixed its hat, and kept coming.

At six paces it finally stopped, wobbling from the last of its momentum. From this close, he could see the drops of water falling from its body. It must have drowned… he struggled to remember when the Invincible could have collected it, before recalling the many sunken boats of Brahne’s little play fleet, when she had come to kill him at the Iifa tree.

“I know why you’re here,” it said. “I’ve watched you get rejected. But you won’t even talk to me?”

“I don’t need a _weak_ little soul like you.” Kuja bristled. “What I desire is strength! You’re just a weapon that’s already failed. You won’t carry me anywhere.”

“...heeheeheeheehee.” It brought it gloved hands to the shaded face under the hat, giggling into them. “You’re just as helpless as I was, aren’t you?”

“Shut UP!”

When the blast from his spell cleared, the black mage was entirely gone. But the air shimmered where it had been, like it might come back – Kuja turned tail and fled.

(He wasn’t afraid. It was an _annoyance_. The longer it stood before him wasting his time, the longer he took to find a real candidate.)


End file.
